(no subject)

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

(Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For a kidney. It seems absurd. For a small bean-shaped lump of fatty tissue that processes waste all day. Then again, someone's life might depend on a used kidney and how much is that worth?)

Humming the theme to Three's Company, Patrick walks into the bar, leaving the loud and strident blare of police sirens behind him. A booth, a bottle of (from the Jalisco reigon) mezcal (añejo, aged one to three years) and lazy yuppie scum in Wayfarer shades.

Comments

[kayip.livejournal.com]

Behrooz notices the humming. He doesn't recognize the tune, he never watched a lot of old American television.

But it does draw yellow eyes to Patrick as he sits down. Can't meet his eyes though - the shades kind of prevent that.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick is glad for the shades. Prevents him from making direct eye contact with anyone.

He can pretend to be polite, giving Behrooz a slight nod.

[kayip.livejournal.com]

Behrooz should consider that. Maybe it'd keep people from being freaked out by his eyes.

Behrooz nods slightly back. It's out of genuine politeness, though he sniffs slightly at the air.

Then, carefully, "Hi."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He is staring past Behrooz's left ear to places unknown. Thinking about dinner. Thinking about pan-seared loin of elk with a chipotle-blackberry sauce served with smashed, honeyed yams. Thinking about Thai spice wild salmon with a sesame ginger glaze and wasabi mashed potatoes. His smile is sincere since he is so distracted, "Hello."

The scents are: (peppermint) hand soap, and expensive cologne (Obsession), and antiseptic bleach.

[kayip.livejournal.com]

And hunger. Not something to worry about, though, and the smile is slightly encouraging. At least, he moves on to say, "I'm Behrooz."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Patrick. Patrick Bateman. It's nice to meet you...Beh-rooz. That is an unusual name. Where is it from?" He asks, marginally curious.

[kayip.livejournal.com]

"It's... Persian," he says slowly. "I'm from Turkey originally, though. My father had some... Persian family."

Or his canon writers are dumb and his mun had to make up a reason.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Ah. That's interesting."

He sounds genuine. Truthfully, Patrick couldn't care less.

[kayip.livejournal.com]

Well, he doesn't need to lie here.

He moves onto another first-conversation question, "How long have you... been here?"

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

Eventually, Puck got back from Dublin of 1729-- but he hasn't forgotten Namo's warning about Security, and thus spent most of the day outside in the form of an otter.

However, the urge for alcohol cannot be denied. Therefore, there appears in the opposite corner of Patrick's booth-- slouched, wearing the pair of sunglasses he'd stolen off him-- one Robin Goodfellow.

"Do you mind?" he asks with a sweet, apologetic smile. "I'm in hiding."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Firmly, "Yes. I mind."

Drinks.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

Puck looks shocked.

Also wounded.

"Why?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He's getting tired of those types of looks.

Wounded, sad.

Especially when they belong to those that remain whole and unharmed

"I am so weary of being annoyed."

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

Does it help that Puck is quite possibly about to laugh?

His expression, however, is utterly sympathetic.

"I do apologize." Headtilt. "Might I make amends?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"No."

And the way he holds the bottle of mezcal means that he will not be sharing. Patrick missed that day of kindergarten. Instead he hunches up his shoulders and takes an especially long drink.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

He sighs, cheek in one hand. The sunglasses slip down his nose.

"That places me in rather a tricky position."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Easy solution. Since I did not invite you, you may hide yourself somewhere else."

He mutters, starting to slouch further down into the booth.

[audieraines.livejournal.com]

Audrey sits nearby with a drink.

She glances up and gives Patrick a small smile of greeting.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

An audible sigh of relief from Patrick, when he sights Audrey and offers a very similar smile toward her. He runs his tongue over his lower lip and the bottom row of his teeth, thoughtfully, measuring what to say. He decides with the usual, "How are you tonight?" With just enough friendly concern to make him real.

[audieraines.livejournal.com]

"I've been better," she says honestly. "Sometimes I wish the past could just disappear."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Unfortunately, the past does tend to linger even when we wish that it would not. Some people have better means of dealing with it. I find that drinking helps, as it usually does." Voice is carefully low, and he smiles a little bit in his attempt to reassure.

[audieraines.livejournal.com]

"Especially here," she takes a sip of wine. "Is any of your past here, Patrick?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"No, Audrey. My past is not here."

He glances down his shoulders, peering over his sunglasses toward his door. Allowing this thoughts to wander down such an avenue. And quite seriously, the idea scares him. The outside corner of his mouth twitches faintly.

"If any of it followed me here, I would lose what control I had left."

[audieraines.livejournal.com]

"I used to fear losing control. I sometimes wonder how sane any of this really is."

She looks up at Patrick.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He slides the glasses down his nose, off his face, flipping them onto the table. He returns look directly, dark and inscrutable. "If I think about it very thoroughly, Audrey, none of this is very sane at all. The same way we need to make ourselves have more chances, we also need to create our own sanity."